


A Healing Touch

by Flutiebear



Series: Free As We'll Ever Be [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Act 1, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:57:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2741771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/pseuds/Flutiebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late one night, Anders shows up on Hawke's door in need of a healing touch. Act 1 drabble, no spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Garrett has just sat down to a dinner of cheese rind and moldy bread, when something heavy slams against Gamlen's door.

He sighs. It's probably just old man Roark, stinking drunk again and using their doorway as a toilet, or a bed, or maybe both. Perhaps it's the Coterie, letting Gamlen know in arrows that last month's debts are past due. Still, whichever it is Garrett doesn't want Mother to have to step over it when she gets the milk tomorrow morning, so he gets up and yanks open the door.

It's Anders.

He lists like a broken mast; scraggled, hair sopping, even though it's not raining outside tonight. Smoke rolls off his shoulders. He smells like thunderstorms. His eyes are cracks through which gleams light the color of open sky. For a moment, Garrett's confused; Anders's eyes aren't blue. Then he remembers.

Anders opens his mouth to say something, but instead pitches forward.

Garrett catches him with both hands. "I got you," he says into Anders's hair. "I got you."

"Who is it?" Mother calls sleepily from her seat by the fire.

"A friend," he replies. He snakes a hand under Anders's shoulder and drags him inside.

"Who?"

"Nevermind that," he says with a grunt. "Better you not know."

Mother doesn't answer. Frankly it's amazing that she'd even stirred to ask in the first place; she's barely moved in a week, not since Carver's birthday. Progress, Garrett supposes.

He hauls Anders into the adjacent room, where four bedrolls have been laid out to mildew on the dank dirt floor. Gamlen isn't in his; he's out at the Rose, thankfully, and he will be all night. Carver, however, shivers in his bedroll, a huddle of muscle and torn cloth. When Garrett enters the room, his brother raises his head, looks over at the two of them, and groans so loudly the darkspawn crawling over Lothering are probably wondering what all the commotion's about.

"Maker, Garrett," he says. "Don't bring him in here. It already stinks enough of shit as is."

"Shut up and go back to sleep," Garrett replies. As gently as he can, he lays Anders down on his bedroll. The man crumples onto the worn wool like a puppet with its strings cut.

Garrett kneels by his side and brushes the hair from Anders's closed eyes. He's utterly drained; completely out of mana, it looks like. His skin is clammy, cold. Gashes on his cheeks weep. Bruises have begun to purple under his eyes.

It can't have been the Templars, thinks Garrett; they would have taken Anders, or left him in more pieces. Must have been the Coterie, or the Carta, or any one of the dozens of other gangs in this pisshole looking to teach a lesson to the healer who dares to give of himself freely, with no thought to how he ought to be lining their pockets instead.

"Is he dead?" says Carver over Garrett's shoulder. "He looks dead."

"I said, go back to sleep," Garrett snaps.

Carver gives a dramatic huff and trundles back over to his pile of soiled blankets. "He better not die in here," he mutters, rolling back over to face the wall. "If he does, I'm not helping you clean up."

Garrett ignores his brother. Instead, he stuffs a few torn trousers under Anders's head in an attempt to make him more comfortable. Anders's head lolls to one side lifelessly.

Garrett drags a hand through his hair and tries not to panic. There's an irony to this, the healer needing healing, yet coming to the one mage who doesn't know the first thing about it. Father never taught him about healing. He'd always said it was too flashy, that the temptation to use it was too great. Suddenly, desperately, Garrett wishes Father were here. He'd know what to do.

Garrett touches the back of his hand to Anders's cheek, letting his knuckles linger against the soft skin and stubble.

Suddenly Anders convulses and cries out. Without opening his eyes, he grabs onto Garrett's hand and clutches it tightly, pulling it close against his heart, as if he might rend open his ribcage and tug Garrett inside.

Garrett tries to tug away his hand, but to no avail. Anders has him fast.

His throat goes dry. He's never held a man's hand like this before. Even his own brother stopped letting Garrett take his hand when they crossed the street when he turned five. And while Garrett's taken the hand of a few farm-girls here and there, he never thought holding hands was the sort of thing grown men did with each other. Especially not when one man, on occasion, liked to think of the other man naked.

His hand fits so neatly in Anders's, though. He can feel the thin bones, the rough knuckle and smooth palm. There's even a staff callous in the hollow of his thumb, just like Garrett's. There's nothing soft about him. It's like Anders grips Garrett with his own hand. Garrett never wants him to let go.

That's probably a bad thing.

Anders whines. Nails dig into the back of Garrett's hand, drawing blood.

"I'm here," he says softly, like he does whenever Dog has a bad dream. He lays his other palm on top of Anders's fist. "I'll keep you safe."

"Maker's balls," mutters Carver, who commences shifting back and forth in his bedroll with as much irritation as he can make obvious.

Again, Garrett ignores his brother. "I'm here," he whispers to Anders instead. "I'm here."

Anders relaxes, ever so slightly, against Garrett's touch.

Something inside Garrett steps up to a precipice and leaps.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For jkateel and TheAndersfelOne, who asked for more. :) I'm always happy to write more of these two.

Anders wakes to the smell of cinnamon.

For a moment he thinks he's back on the shores of Lake Calenhad after his first successful attempt to cross the water: lying on his back, soaked, gasping for breath, fingers tangling in the sun-warmed grass, staring up at a blue sky he hadn't seen for more than an hour at a time since he was five years old. There had been cinnamon trees; he'd fallen asleep in a grove of them.

His heart aches.

Anders blinks awake. He's in a dark, windowless room – his heart seizes, until he realizes the walls are wood, not stone. Lying next to him, _very_ close, is Hawke. No, Garrett. He's so near, in fact, that their beards rasp against each other with each breath. Garrett's closed eyes are crusted over, his hair is matted, and his skin is smudged with some filth or another. It's—a lovely sight. _He's_ a lovely sight.

Somehow they've become knotted in one another: arms intertwined and robes tangled. Anders inhales deeply. The cinnamon smell comes from Garrett's hair. Anders allows himself a second – just one – to breathe it in once more.

His hand aches. He flexes it, only to find that he's holding Garrett's hand in his. Clutching it, really. That's not good. That's a problem. He should definitely let go. Instead, Anders runs his thumb over Garrett's, enjoying the slide, feeling the ridge of knuckle and stiff callous.

On the soft parts are nail marks. He left nail marks.

Anders drops Garrett's hand and sits up. The movement makes Garrett stir. Anders extracts himself from Garrett's hold before the other man can fully wake.

"Oh, good," Hawke says sleepily and levers himself up on one elbow. Anders tries not to imagine what it would be like to see him do that every day. "You're awake. I was getting worried."

"Clearly," says Anders. "Worried yourself right into a coma, I see."

Garrett chuckles sheepishly. The sound slices through Anders's belly as surely as a knife.

"How did I get here?" he asks, dragging a hand through his dirty hair. Much of it has fallen from its tie. He must look like a bird's nest with legs. Probably goes rather well with the feathered pauldrons.

"You just showed up on our doorstep," Garrett replies. "Justice brought you here, I think. You weren't really awake." He nods at Anders's injured face. "Was it the Carta?"

"No," he replies. "The Dog Lords. Last week, I healed one of their archers, and afterward they said they wanted for a healer. They demanded I join on the spot. I turned them down. Their bruisers came to persuade me otherwise."

"Ah," says Garrett. "Bet that didn't go too well for them."

Anders laughs, then sucks in a sharp breath. It hurts to laugh. He's got at least one cracked rib, maybe more. Maybe broken, not cracked. "Went worse for me, I can assure you. I'm not so fearsome when I'm all on my own."

Garrett frowns. "But… didn't Justice…?"

The corner of Anders's lips tugs upward. "Justice doesn't bother himself much over the gangs of this city. I guess even he recognizes a lost cause when he sees it."

Garrett's frown deepens into a grimace. "I should have been there."

"You?" Anders laughs again, even though it hurts. "Why? What could you have done?

Glumly Garrett looks down at his hands. "More than you alone could have, at least."

Heat creeps up Anders's neck. It's a preposterous sentiment yet, oddly, a comforting one as well. He distracts himself from it by casting a small healing cantrip, something to hold the broken ribs in place until he can get back to his clinic and mend them for good. Garrett watches him intently. The scrutiny is a little unnerving, actually.

"How long have I been out?" Anders asks.

Garrett shrugs. "A day or so?"

"Andraste's ass," he groans.

"What? You really needed the sleep."

"But my patients. They'll be lining out the door. I have to get back." He tries to stand up, only to fall back on his ass.

"Not until you eat something," says Garrett. "You've been through a lot. You need your daily dose of cheese rind and bread mold to get back on your feet."

He disappears into the other room and comes back a minute later with a plate of bread and cheese, as well as a fruit Anders doesn't recognize. He picks it up to inspect it, and lifts his eyebrow at Garrett.

"It's a vhenadahl fruit," Garrett replies. "Carver gets them from I don't know where. Probably down in the alienage somewhere."

Anders shrugs and eats it. It tastes good. Everything tastes good. He can't remember the last time he ate, actually. Although his patients usually donate food to the clinic, it's not the most reliable source of meals, especially since Anders makes his assistants eat their share of it before he does. That, plus his lingering Warden appetite, means Anders is always on the edge of starvation, the gnawing like knives in his belly.

The food is gone in seconds.

"You were hungry. There's more, if you like." There's a softness to Garrett's tone. A dangerous softness.

"No." Anders holds up his hands to create some distance between him and Garrett. "I've imposed on your hospitality long enough. I really should get back. Injuries don't wait."

Unsteadily he stands. Garrett tries to help him up, but Anders waves him off.

"At least let me walk you to the clinic," says Garrett. "The Dog Lords might try to leash you again, and you're in no shape to fight them off."

Anders smiles, despite himself. "Alright."

They leave the shack and, together, slowly walk to Darktown. Or, rather, Garrett walks. Anders limps, leaning heavily on walls and crates but definitely, stubbornly, not leaning on Garrett.

Not that Garrett notices. He has busied himself like an overeager terrier, eyeing with suspicion every blade or muscle that dares come within ten feet of them. He even growls at a few. It'd be endearing, if it weren't so obnoxious; for it makes Anders think of Templars, and that's not an association he wants to make with Garrett.

He's just so young sometimes. So young and full of… himself.

"Anders, I've always wondered," Garrett says as they descend the stairwell to Darktown. His gaze roves the shadows. "Why a free clinic?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're here to help the mages, aren't you? So why open a free clinic in a sewer instead?"

Anders picks his way around a particularly large heap of garbage that might also be a man. He wrinkles his nose. "I suppose because deep down, I'm Fereldan too," he says, "and I do feel some kinship toward my countrymen."

"But you're from the Anderfels, aren't you?"

"I was born there, yes. But I barely remember it." Anders sighs. "For better or worse my home was Kinloch, even if I didn't care for it very much."

The answer seems to please Garrett. "I see. Probably doesn't hurt to get on the Kirkwallers' good side, either, so they don't give you up to the Templars."

Anders shakes his head. "It's more than that. I'm influencing minds, shaping opinions. If I can make the Darktowners realize they have no cause to fear mages, then then perhaps they can change minds from the bottom up."

Garrett snorts. "When has that ever worked? When has a noble ever listened to what the beggar on his doorstep has to say?"

"I have to try," Anders replies firmly.

"You're right. It's just—well—" Garrett does this twisting, biting thing with his lip, an inconvenient habit that Anders really wishes he'd drop already. He wouldn't do it, not if he knew what it made Anders think of. "Thank you. It means a lot that you do so much for a bunch of strangers."

Anders hates that he feels so gratified by that. "No need to thank me. I'm not doing it for you," he says, his tone a little harsher than perhaps necessary.

"O-of course not," Garrett stammers, looking down at his hands. "I didn't mean that you were."

"Besides, you do the same, don't you? Help people you've never met? I watch you do it all the time, much to your brother's consternation."

"It's not the same," says Garrett. "I help people for coin."

"And I help people for the mages," says Anders. "Of course it's the same."

They stop walking. Anders looks around and realizes it's because they've arrived at the clinic's door. A not-so-small part of him is disappointed at the realization. Worryingly so.

"Thank you for the escort, Hawke," he says as formally as he can.

"Any time. Just ask." He looks like he really means it, too, the bastard. Anders swallows around a suddenly dry throat.

"And thank you for watching over me. I'm sorry to have abused your hospitality."

"You can abuse me any time," says Garrett. Then he flushes, realizing what he said. "Um—that is—I meant—"

Before he can stop himself, Anders lays a hand on Garrett's shoulder. The muscle there is firm, solid. "I know what you meant."

They share a smile. It lasts a fraction of a second too long. Then Anders turns away and retreats into his clinic before he does something he'll regret.

Or something he won't regret. He's not sure which possibility scares him more.


End file.
